


You can thank my uterus later

by celestialskiff



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cunnilingus, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Hair-pulling, M/M, Margo and Eliot love each other a lot, Menstrual Sex, Menstruation Kink, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Spanking, Telling Quentin Coldwater what to do because he loves it, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 08:07:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18384398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: Quentin was fiddling with his hair and not quite looking at her. Jiggling his hands. He did want something, Margo thought. Something he was embarrassed about.“Good things happen to boys who ask nicely,” she said.It’s shark week. Quentin’s into it. (Dedicated to anyone who, like me, heard Margo talk about her period in 4.11 and was instantly horny.)





	You can thank my uterus later

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE thank you to **capeofstorm** for being both such a good sport and an excellent beta. Not American-picked. Mistakes are my own.

She’d walked in on Eliot spanking Quentin’s ass. Another good reason not to knock: Quentin’s bared ass might not be the hottest thing in the world, but she was into it when it was pink. Quentin snuffled into the bed-sheet, making little, enthusiastic noises. Eliot was fully clothed, and his rings clearly stung when they met Quentin’s flesh. 

Margo held the door open, watching. Eliot looked up, met her eyes. “Bambi. In or out?” 

She’d been planning to get a drink, maybe to borrow one of Eliot’s scarves. She had plans for the evening, and sacrificing them in order to masturbate with Quentin Coldwater would be frankly embarrassing. 

“Out,” she said. Quentin looked up, open-mouthed and red-faced, like he’d just become aware of her. She winked at him. 

*

Quentin had got a lot better about not being fucking weird the day after something happened between all three of them. In the kitchen the morning after the spanking incident, he didn’t blush at all as he poured his cereal. Margo leant back against the counter-top, rubbing her abdomen. 

“Bambi?” Eliot asked, staring at the empty coffee maker as though longing alone might provide caffeine. “You OK?”

“Just shark week,” Margo said. “I’m going to need a bottle of pinot grigio tonight.” 

Half an hour later, she was stretched out on the apartment’s ridiculously long sofa, flicking through one of Julia’s spell books, when Quentin, without being asked, brought her Tylenol and a glass of water. 

She stared at him. 

“I just. Um...” He fiddled with his hair. He’d gained confidence lately, she’d noticed, but she was glad he was still mostly afraid of her. 

“Get me something with caffeine too,” she said. “Something cold.” 

He did. _Interesting._

*

Margo caught herself watching Eliot all the time. It reassured her to see him doing human things: drinking, looking at his phone, adjusting his shirt. She felt like a teenager with a crush, finding everything that crush did fascinating. Except now she knew it was all boring, and she actually _wanted_ Eliot to be boring. He was here, he was safe. Margo tried not to make the staring too obvious. She lay on his bed while he was reading, curled towards the heat of his body. Watching his chest rise and fall. 

“What are you doing?” Margo asked. Eliot didn’t read often. He’d never seemed to study at Brakebills. 

“Reading about constitutional monarchy,” he said. “For Fillory.” 

“You know, I think it’s working out pretty well with me and Fen,” Margo said. “We know what we’re doing. You can stay on your sex holiday with Quentin for as long as you want.” 

“I’m still... Fillory is still my home.” His voice had a pleading edge. “Also it’s not exactly a vacation here. Shit’s fucked, haven’t you noticed?”

“It always is.” Margo folded her hands behind her head. “You have choices. That’s important.” 

Quentin pushed the door open. Paused, like he wasn’t sharing this room with his boyfriend and had no right to be here. 

Margo looked at Eliot. “Q’s been very attentive to me today: what do you think he wants?”

“Come here,” Eliot said, holding his hand out to Quentin with an expression that managed to be both imperious and fond. 

“What?” Quentin said, perching at the edge of the bed. 

“He’s always eager to please.” Eliot looked at Margo. “That’s part of why we love him.” 

Quentin was fiddling with his hair and not quite looking at her. Jiggling his hands. He did want something, Margo thought. Something he was embarrassed about. 

Margo scooted closer to Eliot, leant her head on his shoulder. He smelt of the rose soap from the kitchen. “Good things happen to boys who ask nicely.” 

Eliot smiled – not at Quentin, but at her. “That’s true. What are you planning, Bambi?” 

“I’m not planning anything. It’s all him.” 

Quentin squirmed, looking like he was going to climb off the bed. Seemed to think better of it. “We all fuck all the time,” he said. “It’s not a... plan. It’s...” He looked to the side, all awkward, like he hadn’t had his tongue in Margo’s ass two nights ago. 

Eliot thought it was cute, how nervous Quentin got talking about sex. Margo thought it was getting old. Eliot’s arm went around Quentin’s waist, gentle and protective, the way he only ever touched Q. 

Margo met Quentin’s eyes. “You know I’m on, though. First day. Heavy flow. Blood everywhere. I’m not just going to sit here and watch you two blow each other.” 

“You’re not?” Eliot said. “I’m sure some people would pay for the privilege.” 

“I, uh. I know,” Quentin said, looking at Margo and then looking away. “I’ve heard.” He swallowed. “I’ve heard coming can help? With pain?” 

“How altruistic of you,” Margo said. 

“Jesus.” Eliot leant back against the headboard, so suddenly Margo slipped off his shoulder. “You’re even kinkier than I thought.” 

“Well, _you_ can barely handle pussy as it is,” Margo said. “Period sex may be beyond you.”

Quentin stared very hard at the corner of the bed. He was biting his lip. “I always thought it would be hot. Uh. I went down on Alice one time, when she was...”

“Shh...” Margo reached across Eliot so she could pet Q’s stupid hair. “I’m not complaining.” 

“We don’t have to, it might not be your thing...” Quentin muttered, thumbs flicking nervously again. 

“Sweetie.” Margo twisted her fingers in his hair, like she knew he liked. She’d seen Eliot do it enough times. “Like I said, good things happen to boys who ask nicely. What do you want?” 

Quentin looked at Eliot, not at her, like he was asking for permission. Which was kind of annoying, because Margo was clearly the one in charge here. This was her pussy, and her menstrual blood. Eliot shrugged at Quentin, raised his eyebrows slightly. “Tell her,” he said.

“I mean, I was just thinking I could go down on you...” Quentin swallowed. “Then you could fuck me.” 

Margo moved her hand down from his hair to his cheek. Stroked the scruff of stubble there, the frown line by his lip. “Fuck you how?” 

This evening was shaping up, she thought. Eliot had relaxed a little against her. Quentin pressed into her touch. 

“Well... you could be on top,” Quentin said. “Of me. I mean. And I could... If you want.” 

“You want me to ride your little cock?” Margo touched her thumb to his lips. Quentin shivered. His tongue darted out, wet his lips and the tip of her finger. “I’m going to cover you in blood if I’m on top.” 

“I think that’s kind of the idea,” Eliot said. He sounded resigned. He stroked his arm down Quentin’s back. “Right, baby?” 

Quentin squirmed, nodded. 

Eliot looked between them. His eyes settled on Margo’s. “Should I stay? Or do you want your vampire times to be private?” 

Quentin made a little squeaky sound in his throat. It wasn’t at all hot, Margo thought, but it was kind of endearing. He grabbed the front of Eliot’s shirt. “Please stay.” 

Margo laughed, pulling her hand away from Quentin’s face. “He’s still afraid of me,” she said. “I like it.” She watched as Quentin shifted his weight from thigh to thigh. 

“You should stay, El,” she agreed. “Are we going to do this?” She stretched a little, feeling the familiar burn of blood in her abdomen, the wetness in her vulva that was nothing to do with arousal. She was aware of being careful with them, careful in a way she wouldn’t have been a couple of years ago. Eliot and Quentin were important – she didn’t want to fuck things up. But then, Eliot and Quentin had been through a lot. A little period sex shouldn’t push them over the edge. 

Eliot squeezed Quentin’s hand. “We’re going to do this.” 

“OK.” Margo leant back against the pillows. “Eliot, go get some towels for the bed. Black, if you can find them. Quentin, take your clothes off.” 

*

It was a familiar position, lying with her head in Eliot’s lap while someone else got her off. They’d done it plenty of times – when they first met, and spending time like this felt magical, this closeness between them that they didn’t know how to name. How she’d looked up at Eliot and felt a love she’d never felt for anyone before, and he’d looked down at her, and the second-year who’d been eating her out had basically stopped existing. The second-year was just a fuck, and Eliot was – everything. 

Then she guessed they’d got over the honeymoon phase, and there were things about Eliot that had started to get on her nerves, and it was possible to have sex without him in the room. Sometimes much better sex than if he was there. But they’d never stopped, and it was still familiar and good lying with him. Sharing a partner with him. Seeing the little smile on his face as Quentin Coldwater ate her out. 

She’d taken her clothes off, and Eliot touched her breasts in a vague kind of way, like he just enjoyed feeling them under his hands. His thumb brushed her nipples, and she wriggled against him. 

Quentin’s mouth worked against her, slow and deliberate. He’d been tentative at first, but now she could feel his face against her, like he was burying himself in her pussy. She could feel his breath against her skin, the catch in his throat. She hoped he was actually enjoying this and it wasn’t something that had seemed better in his head. 

“You OK?” she asked, tapping the top of his head. 

It was objectively gross when Quentin looked up at her from between her thighs, with blood on his lips and teeth, and drying on his cheeks. It was more blood than she’d expected; she supposed it was mixed up with saliva and her own arousal. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eliot hissed. One of his hands was laced with hers, and she felt it clench. “Is this as hot as you thought it would be?” 

Quentin grinned which was, again, gross. It was a kind of sheepish grin, that might have been charming without the blood. “It’s really...” he paused. “You feel good, Margo.” A pause, and then, even more sheepish, “I like the way you taste.” 

It was – Margo couldn’t imagined she tasted good. But she was finding it hotter than she expected: there was Quentin, so obviously covered in her. So obviously wanting to please her. Smelling of her, marked by her. She reached down to caress his cheek. 

She’d fucked while on her period before. But they’d always worked _around_ her period – it hadn’t been the main event. She liked being so appreciated. 

“Back to work,” she said, tugging his hair a little. “Go on, sweetie. Fast circles around my clit. You know what I like.” 

His mouth pressed into her, eager. She could feel the heat of his lips and tongue, and the press of his face against her. The thought of his face buried in her, mouth, nose, buried in blood, the smell of her body, the taste. The way he was applying himself to the task with such care – she felt _so wet_ , it was strange, almost too much, and yet she wanted more of it. That deliberate touch, the broad heat of his tongue. 

“He’s doing well,” she said to Eliot, reaching up to touch his chin. “Very... thorough.” 

Eliot stroked her breast, her shoulder. “Your heart’s pounding.” 

“A normal physiological reaction to arousal.” Margo found her words were gabbled together by the quickness of her breath. Q really was a quick learner. 

She came against his face a few minutes later, felt something inside her unclench. She leant back into Eliot’s arms; it wasn’t a big orgasm, but she felt good. Looser. After a moment she pulled Q up by his hair, kissed his wet face. He tasted like iron – iron, copper, rust. She licked inside his mouth and he made a faint, desperate sound, and crawled up closer to her. His hair falling into her face. 

She felt Eliot move behind her. “I can never unsee this,” he said. 

Margo lifted her head. “Pussy.” 

“My poor, sweet Quentin,” Eliot said, touching Quentin’s blood smeared-cheek. 

To her surprise, Quentin grinned at him. “I can go down on you next.” 

“I’ve never been less hard.” 

Margo hit his shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re saying this to me and Quentin. You _love_ us.” 

“You can leave, if you want,” Quentin said. 

“No.” Eliot swallowed. “You clearly need adult supervision. You should wash you face, babe.” 

*

They cleaned Quentin up a bit. Margo thought she might tease him a little and stop there. Have a drink with both of them. But Quentin was hard and looking at her like she’d invented Fillory, and when he said, hopeful, “So can you... fuck me now?” she wasn’t going to say no. 

“It’s cute the way you’re never the subject of that sentence,” Margo said. “You never fuck anyone, do you, sweetie?”

“No matter what his cock is doing, he’s not in charge,” Eliot said. “Are you, Q?” 

Quentin lay back on the towels they’d spread out. He was flushed, aroused, his face damp. Margo never found him _that_ hot, not the way Eliot did, but she found him hotter now than usual. Eliot played with his hair, idly, touching his cheek and his ear, like he was fondling a pet. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Besides, I don’t think Margo would like it if I was in charge.” 

“That’s true,” Margo said. “El, get a condom for him.” 

Quentin was passive as Eliot rolled the condom onto him. He leaned into Eliot’s touch, and into Margo’s when she rubbed circles onto his chest. He looked up at Margo, big-eyed, pupils blown, lips parted. She and Eliot had privately described Quentin’s cock as comfort-sized, and sometimes when they were playing with him they told him how small he was, how inadequate. He’d hiss between his teeth, and squirm; he didn’t really like it, them saying that, but he liked letting go of the idea that he needed to be strong, or big, or anything other than their toy. 

Right now wasn’t the moment to tease him. He was flushed, nervous, and she was proud of him for saying what he wanted. It wasn’t easy. Besides she didn’t always feel like taking some donkey-dick. Sometimes she preferred something manageable, especially now, when her vulva was over-sensitive, her thighs sore. 

She climbed onto Quentin, put her hands on his shoulders. Felt the heat of his body. She could smell herself on his face and lips. She kissed him again, nipped at his lips, bit his ear. Eliot, still fully-clothed next to them, took out his phone. 

“Shit, El, are we boring you?” she snapped. 

“A little,” Eliot said. “It’s all very hetero and vanilla.” 

“We’re both bi,” Margo said. “All the sex we have is queer.”

Quentin thrust his hips up towards Margo’s vulva. As she ground down against him, she could already feel his skin was damp. Very faintly, she smelt copper in the air. 

“Yeah,” Quentin agreed. “And if this is too vanilla, how do you want us to spice it up?”

“Ignore him.” Margo bit Quentin’s lower lip again. He squeaked, which wasn’t quite the sound she’d hoped for. 

She took his cock in her hand. Quentin’s hips jolted; she could feel the pulse at the head of his cock. She rubbed her thumb over it, watch his eyes squeeze shut. 

“What do you like about this, honey?” Eliot asked. 

“Sex?” Quentin squirmed a little under her touch. 

“I’m pretty sure he means the period part,” Margo said. She thought she was already leaking blood on to him. Eliot was still looking at his phone. Dick. 

“I’ve just been...” Quentin swallowed, looked to Eliot for reassurance. He didn’t give any. Margo slid her hips so she was almost riding Quentin’s cock, but didn’t guide him up into her. Quentin’s hips stuttered under her, like he wanted to thrust and wasn’t sure. “I’ve been curious about it. I guess because my body doesn’t do that? And no one ever talks about it, and it seems like they should.” 

“This is all very woke of you.” Margo touched his cheek. “But it doesn’t explain why you find it so hot.” 

“I don’t know.” 

Quentin was staring at her boobs so hard Margo felt compelled to say, “You can touch, you know, honey,” and his fingers, clumsy and then intent, stroked her breasts.

Eliot put his phone down. She distinctly heard the clink of metal against the night-stand; she deliberately wasn’t looking at him. He was always into her boobs. And Quentin; he was always into Quentin. 

“Try to explain,” Margo said, rocking against him a little, making him draw in a breath. 

“Go on.” Eliot touched Quentin’s cheek. “Remember what we said about needing to ask for stuff?” 

“I like that it’s messy.” Quentin’s voice squeaked. “And I like that it’s not... really about me? It’s about Margo’s body.” 

Margo leant down so she could kiss him. “It’s always about me. Well done for remembering that, sweetie.” Quentin was flushed again, nervous – and still hard against her, though actually making him talk about his needs had probably spoiled the mood for him for a moment. Poor Q, he was kind of fucked up. 

But also lucky, because here she was on top of him. “I can get you messy. If that’s what you want. You want me to fuck you?” 

“Yes,” Quentin squeaked, urgent. She gripped his cock, pressed it to her vagina, slid down onto him, sank around him. Felt muscles go limp and then tighten, tighten. Quentin stared up at her, eyes huge. 

She slid her fingers over her clit, to the place where his cock entered her. Her blood and arousal mixed into something viscous, sticky, and she rolled her fingers into it, getting them wet. It felt good. She leant back, finding a better angle for Quentin’s cock, thrust her hips. “Do some work here,” she said to him. Sometimes he was _too_ passive. 

Margo spread her blood-wet fingers over Quentin’s chest, his stomach. She didn’t leave as obvious a mark as she would have hoped, but it was worth it for the faint, horrified sound Eliot made. 

“Poor baby,” Margo rolled her eyes at him. 

Quentin was tracing his hands down her body, touching her hips, her strip of pubic hair, finding the place where her pussy rubbed against his body. “You feel... so good,” he said, his voice breathy. She thought he’d lie here like this all night if she gave him the opportunity. Staring up at her. Worshipful. She could see why Eliot was into it. 

“Move,” she said, thrusting against him, and felt him finally respond, hips rising to meet hers. His thrust were slow, shuddering, as though he wasn’t sure how much he could take. “You doing OK?” she asked, touching his jaw with her blood-smeared thumb. He nodded, turned his face into her hand, licking her. He sucked her thumb into his mouth, then each of her fingers, one by one, mouthing his way over her palm. 

She felt like she was gliding over Quentin’s cock – she was so wet it was almost a problem. The blood added lubrication. She was bleeding onto him, marking his cock and hips. She touched herself again, rutting her clit into her palm, fingers grasping the base of Quentin’s cock. It was all so – sticky, smelt so strongly of rust. And yet: she liked the heat of it, the slow liquid movement of Quentin’s cock in her, the way his mouth opened for her fingers, like he never wanted to stop tasting her. 

A rustle of silk: Eliot was taking his shirt off, kneeling beside her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and she leant into his embrace. His skin against hers, Quentin below them, thrusting into her erratically. 

“How are you doing?” she asked him, surprised that he was touching her, that his large hand gripped her hip dangerously close to a smear of blood. 

“You’re so fucked up,” Eliot said, tenderly, both of them. He touched Quentin’s face, looking down at him like he was the one riding Quentin’s cock. 

“You’re perfect,” Margo said, which absolutely was not the kind of thing she said, and she would deny having said it under oath. But for a second they were both perfect: Eliot skin-warm against her, Quentin below her. Both of them touching her quivering, animal body, making her part of them. 

She fucked Quentin slowly, thoroughly. The moment felt honeyed, soft and eternal, like she would be here with them forever, guiding Quentin into her, hearing her breath and his; skin and heat and blood. And blood: blood on Quentin’s abdomen, his hips, blood on his pubic hair. 

She remembered the times she’d been disgusted by her own body, by the smell of the blood she caught in tampons and threw into the trash, by the way it betrayed her with pain, and leaked onto panties and sheets and towels. She’d probably be disgusted again – or at least annoyed. But right now this felt good exactly the way it was. It felt good to mark Quentin, to share this part of herself with both of them, not to worry about being clean, being discrete, but to be disgusting, to be dirty, dirty, dirty. 

And fuck it, for a second she loved Quentin for the way he _wanted_ this. For thrusting up into her with obvious pleasure, for saying what he wanted, for wanting something so weird and intimate and _right_. She turned her head to kiss Eliot, the slow, deep kisses she shared with him; then bent to kiss Quentin, his mouth iron-sharp and bitter. She thrust down hard against him, her rhythm growing more intent. Quentin’s lips opened, he hissed, “I won’t last.” 

“Harder, sweetie.” She gripped his shoulder, his arm, rolling her hips. “Harder.” 

When this first started, Quentin was likely to come as soon as someone touched him; came in his fucking pants when Eliot bit his neck the right way. But he had some control now, and he rocked up into her body, hard, harder, as she’d asked, without instantly pushing himself over the edge. She tangled her hand in his hair, murmured praise to him, “Good boy, like that, good boy, harder, honey, yes, harder.” 

His thrusts became erratic, his breath quick, and Margo said, “Eliot, go bite your boyfriend the way he likes,” and she watched as Eliot nipped at Quentin’s neck, his chest, his chin, scraped his nails over Quentin’s nipples. Hitting all of Quentin’s sweet spots, and it was hot, she wasn’t going to deny it. 

Quentin looked bruised, like the brownish traces of blood were blooming beneath his skin. Eliot rubbed his fingers over them as he kissed Quentin. She watched Eliot’s hand in Quentin’s hair, Quentin drinking in Eliot’s kisses, and felt close – close – 

“Like that,” she hissed to Quentin. “Just a little more...” She felt the second orgasm, more intense this time, unspooling inside, her muscles shuddering around Quentin. She sank forward onto Quentin’s chest, pressed her face into his neck. 

“You should come too, baby,” Eliot said, and Quentin, responsive as always, shuddered and gasped, and she felt him shiver as he came. He grunted in that unattractive way men always did. She felt hot all over, limp. She petted Quentin’s his hair vaguely, his cheek. She wanted both of them, both of them against her body, both of them sweat-damp and scented with her blood. She wrapped her arms around both of them, Quentin and Eliot, falling into their warmth, the sound of their breath, the press of their skin against her own. They were hers, she thought, hers – and she lay there on the scratchy towels, thinking that this was perfect. Fucking perfect. 

*

She and Q went into the bathroom together to wash up. It felt weirdly intimate to see Quentin scrubbing down his cock and stomach, wringing out the washrag. 

“Period blood is full of nutrients,” Margo said. “More than regular blood.” 

Quentin grinned a little, around his toothbrush. “I do feel rejuvenated. My hair is softer.” 

Margo elbowed him. “Your hair is always a disaster. Especially since El started dragging you around by it.” 

Quentin shrugged, spat toothpaste into the sink. They’d left the bathroom door open; El was on the bed, looking at his phone. 

“Are you tweeting about us, asshole?” Margo called. 

“You’re not interesting,” Eliot said, but when they came back to bed he gave them both one of his fond little smiles and said, “You’re way too interesting. Twitter would implode. Besides, looking at social media feels weird, post-Fillory.” 

“Don’t make me think about Fillorians on facebook.” Margo lay down on the bed, opened her arms. “Come here, Q, sweetie.” 

She’d put panties back on, but otherwise they were both still naked. She spooned up around Quentin. He felt good against her. Warm and soft. She rested her hand on his stomach. “You’re such a good boy.” 

Quentin ducked his head down, like he’d never heard that before, and he was genuinely proud. Eliot put his phone down, rolled over onto his side, and lay facing Q, holding Quentin’s hands in both of his own. 

“Can we do something I like now?” Eliot asked. 

“You like this.” Quentin hooked his leg over Eliot’s ankle. 

“We can’t spend the evening cuddling.” Eliot snapped. The way he was looking at them betrayed him. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll get bored in ten minutes,” Margo said. That was true. But for now, she enjoyed it: Quentin warm against her, her limbs melting into the bed. Eliot, safe with them.


End file.
